Second Chances
by startraveller776
Summary: A collection of unrelated Outlaw Queen drabbles inspired by prompts on Tumblr.
1. Locked Up

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing.

**Genre:** (for this installment) Humor

**A/N:** These are a bunch of **_unrelated_ **drabbles inspired by Tumblr prompts. Nothing more. (And yes, eventually bonafide fic will be coming from me for this ship, because they are my OTP to end all OTP's on OUAT. Only Captain Swan comes close.)

**Prompt:** Next To Something wanted "Meeting In Prison AU." I took some creative license with it.

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><p><strong>Locked Up<strong>

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><p>"This is ridiculous!" Regina spits as she's ushered into a cell. "I want my phone call."<p>

The man on the other side of the bars smiles (smarmy bastard probably thinks he's handsome). "I'll take care of that for you just after I finish my paperwork." He nods toward the bench behind her. "You may as well make yourself comfortable while you're waiting."

She rolls her eyes. Stupid small town sheriff. (And seriously, how does a one-stoplight, in-the-middle-of-nowhere-America village even have a _British_ law enforcement officer in the first place?) He takes a seat in a tattered office chair and props his feet up on his desk. From one of the drawers, he retrieves a book.

"Are you seriously going to read a novel right now?" she asks, disbelief heavy in her voice.

He doesn't look up. "It would seem so, yes."

She huffs in exasperation. "What, _now_? I thought you were going to do paperwork."

He holds up a hand, examines his bare wrist, and says, "It's time for my break, and I only do paperwork at the end of the day."

Regina grips the steel bars until her knuckles turn white. "As soon as I get out of here," she threatens through gritted teeth, "I'm going to sue you for wrongful imprisonment."

That gets his attention. He sets the book down and swings his legs off the desk. "Wrongful imprisonment, you say?"

She glares at him. "And harassment."

"I see." He bites his bottom lip, nodding slowly. "I think I might fill out the paperwork now, after all."

"It's about time," she retorts.

"Regina Mills—that's a lovely name for a beautiful woman," he says as he writes, and she is absolutely not blushing. "Alleged infractions: reckless driving—"

"I was only going ten miles over the limit!" she exclaims.

He glances up at her and winks. "Try thirty."

"I was not—"

"Next," he continues over her. "Driving with an expired license."

"It was my birthday yesterday! And there aren't any DMVs nearby in this backwater county."

"Happy belated birthday," he replies, utterly unfazed.

"Thank you," she snaps back at him.

"Not at all." His brows pinch together as if he's perplexed. "Now, correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't your birthday on the exact same date every year?"

She scowls, but doesn't answer.

"I believe you had ample warning that your license was to expire. I'm afraid I can't let that go," he says, turning back to the paperwork. "And finally, assaulting an officer."

Her mouth falls open. He's going to charge her for _that_? "I swatted your hand away!"

He gives her a flat look, pointing to the discolored patch of skin on the outside of his eye. "You hit me with your purse."

"Not on purpose! I was trying to…scare you off," she finishes lamely.

In her defense, he _had_ looked as though he was about to search her—bodily. And aside from a tin star, she wasn't even sure he was a _real_ sheriff instead of one of those creeps who pretend to be officers so they can accost helpless women. The man dresses like he's one of the finalists in the Hunger Games with those shabby corduroy pants, worn-out long sleeve shirt covered with an equally worn vest, accessorized with a fringed neckerchief. Top off the look with a stubbly beard, and no, clean-cut trustworthy policeman does not come to mind. (Though, she grudgingly admits he wears the beard well.)

This is not looking good for her. Time to try another tactic. "I'm sorry," she says. "It really was an accident."

He raises a brow. "Apology accepted."

She blows out a sigh of relief. "Does that mean you're dropping the assault charge?"

He chuckles and shakes his head. "It means I forgive you," he says. "As for the assault charge, however, you'll have to plead your case at your arraignment."

He. Is. _Impossible_. She rattles the bars in frustration before letting them go. "And when will that be?"

"Tomorrow afternoon." His mouth stretches in a wide grin. "That is, if the judge is back from his camping trip in time."

She very nearly screams. Instead, she closes her eyes and pinches the bridge of her nose. At least she still has a phone call.

"I don't know about you," he says, drawing her attention back to him, "but I'm famished. What shall we order for lunch? Oh, and I'm Robin, by the way."

This is going to be a very _long_ twenty-four hours.

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><p><strong>AN**: Thanks for reading this little crack fic! Reviews are welcomed like warm fudge brownies and milk.


	2. Honor Above All Else

**Genres: **Angst, Drama

**A/N: **So this is based on an orphaned prompt on Tumblr where someone requested an angsty Robin fic where Regina moves on with her life.

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><p><strong>Honor Above All Else<strong>

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><p>He chose honor over his heart (for what is his heart without honor?), and he knew the pieces to the puzzle that had become his life wouldn't fall into place effortlessly. He knew, but he didn't quite understand.<p>

He goes about relearning to love his wife—for Roland's sake. For Marian's. He tells Regina, the broken queen who suffered more than anyone has a right to bear, that he did love her—loves her still, even if obligation prevents him from acting on that tender affection. He's not sure if he makes that confession to assure her that what they had (what was stolen from them) was real—or if _he_ needs that anchor in the midst of this unexpected turmoil.

He thinks the ache in his chest will ease if Regina finds happiness again, even without him. Because the hollow look in her dark eyes, the lines that furrow her brow, draw her mouth into a frown are silent indictments against him. He feels guilt despite the fact that the divide between them is not one he created. He never planned to be another name on the list of those who disappointed her, who _left_ her, and yet he is.

But if she would smile once more, genuine and without malice or mockery (the way she used to smile at him), perhaps that will alleviate this pain, this regret.

He believes this, but he doesn't quite understand.

Not until months later when she does smile. At Henry as they sit together at Granny's, dipping fries in a milkshake. Robin tries not to watch them, tries not to hear her laughter breaking over the other noises of the busy diner like the sea crashing onto the shore. He should be pleased for her, and he is, but it feels strangely like this brief moment of joy has begun to unravel the invisible cord that ties him to her.

He spends hours at the archery range, nocking arrows and letting them fly until the callouses on his fingers crack. He tells himself the exercise is solely because he's become too reliant on the crossbow in this realm. He tells himself it's not because he can't yet face his wife, not when he's skirting precariously close to the edge of truly losing what he can't have.

He loves Marian (how can he not?), but as he lies next to her, her warm body pressed into his side, he knows that love is pale, colorless. On moonless nights, he wonders if it was always this way with her, if he called it deep and passionate because he hadn't yet experienced true depth and true passion. Like a boy who considers a pair of rabbits over a cook fire a feast until he stands before a buffet table full of every delicacy imaginable.

Time heals all wounds, the saying goes, and time seems to have given Regina that gift. Robin witnesses the serenity that settles over her. She chooses to access her light magic more often (magic, he recalls, that was first inspired by _his_ unconditional faith in her). She's embraced by the Charmings, accepted by Emma, and the town is beginning to forget the Evil Queen and coming to know Regina Mills. She belongs. She's wanted. (Even Marian speaks well of her.)

And Robin is glad. He's _so_ glad. Even if his heart feels tighter, smaller, knowing that he has no part in her burgeoning happiness, no part in her life. He can live with this, he tells himself.

(He's determined, but he doesn't quite understand.)

Anguish is not a word he uses lightly. He's only experienced it twice before: at Marian's death, on Regina's doorstep when he made his choice. And now a third time. It doesn't come when men, no longer frightened by a vengeful sorceress, begin to take notice of the mayor—though Robin is not overly fond of watching casual touches and laughter between her and some fellow who has her attention. He doesn't allow the black mark of jealousy to fester; he has no claim on her, and he's an honorable man. (To a fault.)

No, his torment comes in a quiet conversation with her while they are staking out their latest enemy. Thank you, she tells him, for believing in her, for seeing beyond her façade built from hatred and hurt to the woman she could become. Thank you, she explains, for teaching her about honor, about love. Her words are weighted with finality, with _goodbye_, and he knows that the tie between them is severed once and for all.

He wants to tell her that his love still burns bright, that what they shared is etched into his bones, impossible to dismiss as a mere life lesson. But he only says that he's grateful to hear that she was able to make peace with what transpired. (Maybe he will too someday. The lie is getting harder to believe.)

She squeezes his hand, turns back to their task in quiet dismissal. And he swallows down his misery.

Because he chose honor over his heart (but what is honor without his heart?).

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><p><strong>AN:** Thank you for reading! Reviews are better than chocolate. :)


	3. Locked Up (Part Two)

**Genre:** Humor/Romance (a little bit)

**A/N:** I received requests to continue "Locked Up" (the first chapter in this hodge podge batch of drabbles), and there was a request on Tumblr for OQ fluff (since we're only getting angst these days in canon). So here it is. This is fluffy; I think I gave myself a cavity.

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><p><strong>Locked Up (Part Two)<strong>

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><p>He gives her the call after lunch (a passable burger from a place called Granny's Diner). It's not her phone—because her carrier doesn't have good coverage here and apparently it's evidence; he gives her his cell instead. She's tempted to wipe out his contact list out of spite, but he'd probably press charges for that, too.<p>

"Hello?"

Regina almost sags in relief at the familiar voice. "Henry."

"Mom!" he exclaims on the other end. "Where are you? Are you okay? Whose phone are you using?"

She smiles at the flood of questions; she's missed him. "I'm all right," she reassures him when he pauses for breath. "I've been delayed for a day—" she glowers in Robin's direction (he's back to reading his book), "—but I'm fine. Can you please put Emma on?"

"Okay," Henry replies, and she likes, just a little, that he's disappointed that he can't talk to her more. "Love you, Mom."

"Love you, too."

There's a muffled noise on the other end and then: "I take it from Henry's side of the conversation that there's been a hiccup."

"You could say that." Another glare at the sheriff. "I've had a misunderstanding with local law enforcement."

Robin snorts, and she rolls her eyes. _Of course_ he's listening in.

"How bad is it?" Emma asks.

"Minor. But if you could call my attorney and have him send someone to…" She trails off, trying to remember the name of this pathetic little town.

"Storybrooke," Robin supplies as he turns a page.

"Storybrooke," she repeats through gritted teeth, "in Maine—by tomorrow."

"Yeah, sure," Emma replies. "I'll keep Henry until you get back. Anything else?"

"No." Regina hesitates before adding, "Thank you." The words feel unnatural to say—at least, to Emma. They've come a long way.

There's a pause on the other end. "No problem." Click.

She waves Robin's phone at him. "Finished."

He takes his time getting up from his chair and crossing the room. "Son, is it?" he asks. His calloused fingers briefly graze hers as he takes the device, and she jerks her hand back.

"Yes," she answers. "Not that it's any of your business."

"True." He nods, leans against the bars as he pockets his cell. "How old?"

She's a venture capitalist, worked with a myriad of insufferable people, but she thinks this guy might be the most irritating, obstinate man she's ever had the (dis)pleasure of crossing paths with. "I thought I made it clear that it's none of your business."

"You did," he agrees. "I've got a boy, myself—Roland. Recently turned five. He certainly keeps me on my toes."

"How nice for you," she returns with a brittle smile. She wonders if he suffers from some kind of developmental disorder where he can't process social cues. Or is this that so-called small town charm where everyone is sickly pleasant to one another. ("Why yes, I've just arrested you and put you behind bars, but let's be friends, shall we?") No. Just no.

He opens his mouth but is interrupted—thank _god_—by the door opening. "Speak of the devil," he says with a wide grin, stepping away from the bars.

A tiny person with a mop of dark hair hurtles toward the sheriff, hollering at the top of his little lungs, "Daddy!" Robin captures the boy, lifts him to his hip, and Regina feels a bit nostalgic for the days when Henry was as small—when he thought she hung the moon.

"We thought we'd stop by," says a woman at the threshold, "before we headed over to the docks." She's petite with short, dark hair and has the kind of homespun, girl-next-door aura which has always rubbed Regina the wrong way.

"Thank you, Mary Margaret," Robin says before turning to his son. (What was his name again? Roland.) "And how was school today?"

"Good!" Roland answers enthusiastically. "I learned 'c' for cat! Meow! And Callie ate the paint again. It was funny!" He laughs, and it is utterly disarming—especially paired with those adorable dimples which he obviously got from his father.

"That _is_ funny," Robin agrees. "Though probably not very good for her tummy." He pokes Roland in the belly, and the boy squeals with more laughter.

"It's yucky!" Roland makes a gagging sound, and then stops abruptly when he lays eyes on Regina. "Daddy," he asks in a hushed voice, "you got a prisoner?"

Robin chuckles. "No, Regina is a guest." He winks at her as if this were all some joke. She doesn't find it funny.

"Hi," Roland says to her. "Do you want to come play pirates with me and Killian?"

The boy _is_ cute, and it's certainly not _his_ fault that his father is incredibly annoying, therefore Regina smiles at him. He reminds her of Henry at this age, when her son believed that strangers were merely friends he hadn't met yet. She remembers the pervasive fear that Henry would happily walk off with some miscreant who offered him candy or a puppy, and she wonders if Robin ever worries about that. Probably not in a town like this where everyone knows everyone.

"Not today, little man," Robin answers for her.

"Your father and I have some business to attend to," Regina replies, trying very hard not to glare at Robin. "Thank you for the offer."

Roland pouts. "Okay," he says with all the weight of a disappointed five-year-old. "You can come play with me in the morning."

Robin laughs, shaking his head. "I'm afraid you've got school in the morning."

"_After_ school," Roland counters. Clearly he inherited his father's stubborn streak. Heaven help the rest of the world.

"We'll talk about it later." Robin sets him down on the ground. "Now, you mustn't keep Killian waiting. Off you go."

"Bye bye, Daddy!" Roland gives his father a kiss on the cheek. "Bye, Gina!" He waves furiously before dashing toward Mary Margaret.

Robin watches his son leave with a fondness that Regina recognizes, though it galls her that she would have _anything_ in common with this man.

"He's sweet." The words leave her mouth before she can think better of it. Because the last thing she wants to do is initiate a friendly conversation.

"He's my world," Robin says with a wistful smile. He turns to her. "I imagine you know what that's like."

Yes, she does, but she's not going to admit that to him. "It was nice of your wife to bring him by," she deflects.

Robin frowns. "Mary Margaret? Oh, no. She's Roland's teacher. I'm—" He hesitates, brows furrowing as though he's not quite sure how to explain. "I'm a single father. I'm not married."

There's something in the way his voice catches that implies a deeper backstory, but she doesn't ask. She's determined not to succumb to some twisted form of Stockholm Syndrome. It doesn't matter that he seems like a good father and an authentically nice (if aggravating) person; _he locked her up_. And that is simply unforgivable.

"And you?" he asks. "Is Henry's father in the picture?"

She rolls her eyes. If this man has his way, they'll be braiding each other's hair and painting each other's fingernails by dinner. "I adopted Henry."

"That's really admirable."

And he means it. Not in the "what a beautiful story; you'll be a shoo-in for some charity award or other which will humanize your image" PR kind of way, either. He is looking at her with actual admiration, as if he knows she didn't bring Henry into her life as an accessory to be put away with nannies and boarding schools and only let out for photo-ops. As if he knows that she was the one who was up all night with Henry, that she changed all of his diapers—even if that meant cutting meetings short (God help the idiot who made the comment about mothers in the workplace, too), that she has only ever shared him with Emma—and only because _he_ wanted to know his birth mother. As if he knows that Regina hadn't signed the adoption papers out of altruism, but because she needed Henry more than he needed her, that he changed her and continues to inspire her to be a better person.

"Yes, well," she says. "He's my son." It's so much more than that, but she suspects Robin understands—which, of course, annoys her all the more.

He nods gravely and steps away from the cell _finally_, and it appears like he's done tormenting her with small talk. He picks up his book from the desk, but doesn't sit down in his chair. "I've got to do my rounds, now," he says (as if she cares). "I'll be gone for a few hours. You'll be all right?"

She looks heavenward. Does he think she's going to hurt herself? Please. "Somehow I will survive without your dazzling company."

He grins, completely unfazed by her sarcasm, and crosses the room to her. "It can get quite boring in here," he says, pushing his book through the bars. "Just don't lose my place."

She scowls at the novel before taking it—because the man would probably stand there all day until she did. "I wouldn't dream of it."

He leaves with a laugh, and Regina is thankful for the silence.

For the first twenty minutes.

It takes another ten before she decides to risk infectious disease by sitting on the dusty cot. She holds out for thirty more minutes before picking up the novel. _Great Expectations_ by Charles Dickens. Not exactly what she expected from a scruffy small town sheriff—not that she's impressed. Hardly.

She turns to where he's marked his place. The bookmark is a strip of lace-edged fabric in a protective plastic sleeve with a quote from Francis Bacon stitched in delicate needlepoint. "Read not to contradict or refute…but to weigh and consider." The ribbon dangling off the end is worn and faded—once a deep periwinkle, she thinks. It's decidedly feminine, not his, not originally. A keepsake from a late mother? Sister? Wife? Unsettled by the last thought, she closes the book, drops it on the cot.

It's not that the idea of him being a widower, coupled with the brief image of his unfettered joy with his son, makes him more than the two-dimensional brute who threw her into jail over a measly expired license. (And speeding and assault—a dubious charge at best.) No, she's bothered by thought that they might share _more_ than being single parents. She doesn't want to have any kind of affinity with someone so unsophisticated and rustic.

She paces the cell until her legs tire—until her heels blister her feet—but she doesn't pick up the book again.

She's sitting on the cot once more, back propped against the wall, when he returns, shadows painted long in the office by the receding sunlight in the windows. He says nothing, and she doesn't look at him, not until she hears the jangle of keys followed by the clank of the lock on her cell.

The door opens with a loud screech, and she glances up at him with a raised brow.

He gives her a small bow. "Shall we, milady?"

"You're dropping the charges?" she asks, incredulous.

"No." He shakes his head. "I thought you might like to have dinner outside of these confines."

Oh. She purses her lips, thinks of telling him thanks but no thanks, but after a day spent in this dingy cell, she doesn't have it in her to be _that_ stubborn. "And you're not worried about having a dangerous fugitive on the loose?"

He makes a sound between a laugh and snort. "Considering that your vehicle has been impounded, and I have all of your things," he says, "_and_ the next town is more than fifty miles away with nothing but forest between, I'd wager you're not much of a flight risk." His gaze dips down her form, stopping at her feet. "Not in those shoes."

Scowling, she rises from the cot, picks up the book as an afterthought. She shoves it into his chest as she passes him. "Not my kind of novel." Lie. Complete _lie_.

He smirks as if he knows it, too. "Pity."

He takes her to Granny's Diner—apparently the only restaurant in this sinkhole. Either that or the only place he's willing to patronize. Once they are ensconced in a corner booth—all eyes following them discreetly and not-so-discreetly—a buxom young waitress sidles up to their table.

"Hey, Sheriff," she says with a wide grin. "Who's your pretty friend?"

Regina glares at her.

"Ruby, this is Regina Mills," he answers. "She's gotten into a bit of a spot on her way home, and she'll be staying in town for a day or two."

"Oh, hon," Ruby says with sympathy written all over her overly made-up face. "If you need anything, let me know, okay?"

Regina orders the most expensive thing on the menu (some pedestrian meal called "surf and turf"). Robin finds that funny—just like everything else. She has the fleeting thought of clawing his eyes out.

"If you think we're going to swap life stories," she explains after their food arrives, "you're mistaken. I don't do the touchy-feely thing."

"Somehow I doubt that." Robin leans forward, elbows on the table. "It's been my experience that people who put up walls do so because they feel things more deeply than the rest of us—or they've experienced tragedy. Or both."

She really, _really_ doesn't like him and his presumptuous opinions. She gives him a flat look. "Don't tell me you're the town psychologist, too."

"I did own a pub for a couple of years back in England," he says, "but I leave the therapy to Doctor Hopper now."

"How generous of you." She looks away from him, concentrates on her dinner (the garlic mashed potatoes are actually pretty good), hoping he'll get the message that she's not in the mood for conversation.

It's a futile hope.

"Husband or fiancé?" he asks between bites of chicken.

She sets down her fork and knife, interlaces her fingers beneath her chin and levels a sardonic expression at him. "Isn't it a conflict of interest to hit on the woman you've brought charges against?"

He drags his teeth over his bottom lip and smiles. (He _definitely_ knows he's attractive, flirty bastard.) "I'll admit that I'm probably not the most qualified man to be sheriff. The law and I have always had a very tenuous relationship," he says. "But I wasn't actually hitting on you. I was asking if the person you lost was your husband or fiancé."

She stares at him for several breaths. _Un_believable. "Fiancé, twelve years ago," she answers because he's like a dog with a bone and won't shut up otherwise. "My mother died last week, and we had a complicated relationship. Do you want to pry into that, too?"

Robin raises his hands in surrender. "I apologize, milady. I meant no offense."

"I bet." She sucks in a deep breath. "I don't know what you're hoping for, but we're not anything alike."

He bites his lip again. (It's really becoming rude.) "I think you'd be surprised. I happen to—" He's interrupted by the jangle of the bells hanging from the door and a squeal of "Daddy!" Roland comes barreling down the aisle and leaps into his father's lap. Another man follows in his wake, tall and in all black with the kind of swagger of someone who's usually up to no good. The aforementioned Killian, she presumes.

"We sailed the high seas," he announces (this one's British, too), leaning against the booth near her, "and our little pirate made Smee walk the plank."

"Arr, me matey!" Roland pipes in.

"It was a victorious afternoon of plundering and looting, if I do say—" Killian stops when he sees Regina. The smile he gives her would probably make a lesser woman swoon. "Oh hello, love. What's your name?"

"Not interested," she replies.

Killian clasps his chest as though stricken. "Ouch."

"That's a new record, mate," Robin says, and he's beaming as if he's proud of her.

"She's name is Gina!" Roland interjects (un)helpfully. "And she's a guest." He drops to a whisper and adds, "But she was in the jail."

"_Her_ name is _Re_gina," Robin corrects, ears turning pink. "And she's just passing through town. Don't you have a deck to swab?"

Killian gives him a crooked grin. "Aye," he says. "I know when I'm not wanted. Enjoy yourselves." He winks at Robin before making his way to the breakfast bar.

Ruby swoops over seconds later and ruffles Roland's hair. "Hey kid," she says. "Granny's got some Mac n' Cheese for you at the counter. Why don't you hang out with me while your Daddy and his friend visit, okay?"

Roland looks at Regina, frown turning his little mouth down before finally relenting. "Okay," he says. "Daddy, can Gina come at our house after dinner? I want to show her my new game on the frog pad."

"Leap pad," Robin says with a chuckle. "And we'll talk about it."

"Yay!" Roland cheers as he skips off with Ruby.

"You do realize," Regina says when they're alone again, "that he thinks you said yes."

Robin sighs, rubbing a hand across his eyes. "I know. I make quite a lot of bad parenting choices in the name of avoiding inconvenient temper tantrums."

"We've all been there." She's not quite sure why she's admitting this to him. Probably because he's the first _real_ single parent she's talked to in a long time. Emma doesn't count; the woman entered the picture less than a year ago when Henry was already half-raised.

"Sometimes I wonder if I'm bungling the whole thing," Robin says. "I'm making up everything as I go."

She knows the feeling, but the discussion is getting uncomfortably close to being comfortable—and on the cusp of turning into a Survivors with Children mini-support group. Because a question about his (late?) wife is dangling precariously on the tip of her tongue. She swallows it back.

"You mentioned that you have a tenuous relationship with the law," she says instead.

It takes him a second to catch up to the change in topic, and when he does, he cringes. "I did, didn't I?" He leans back in his seat. "If you must know, I used to be a thief—a very good one, in fact."

Now, that's interesting. "And they let a felon become sheriff?"

"I've never actually been caught," he says with more pride than shame. "That was a long time ago, before—"

"Roland," she finishes for him.

"Marian, actually—my wife." There's pain in his expression when he says her name, but it's more like an old wound that will never fully heal—one he's learned to live with. (One Regina knows all too well.) "She saw in me a better man than I was, and here I am."

Regina can't say the same thing about Daniel, at least not after his death. She _was_ better with him, but when he was taken from her, she shut down. She became cold, vengeful, angry. Like her mother. Henry has been her saving grace, though she will never be the same naïve, open young woman she once was, full of hope and romanticism.

She picks at her food, shaking the morose thoughts from her mind. She's not hungry anymore, but neither is she anxious to return to her cell and the grimy cot that awaits her. "Thief to sheriff is quite a transformation," she says, steering the conversation clear of the minefield of late loved ones.

"An accidental transformation, truth be told," he replies. "The old sheriff was rather corrupt. I exposed him, and well, apparently that made me the best candidate to replace him."

Silence falls between them; she's not interested enough to ask more questions. (Lies. She's _too_ interested, and it concerns her.) She thinks of her lawyer coming tomorrow, ponders how they might come up with a strategy to get the charges dropped or reduced. She thinks of Henry, wonders if Emma has him stuffed full of pizza and soda by now—the woman doesn't have a domestic bone in her body. As a career woman, Regina isn't exactly Suzy Homemaker either, but she at least knows how to cook.

"I am sorry to hear about your mother, by the way," Robin says, interrupting her musings. "Complicated relationship or not, it's never easy to lose a parent."

Regina blinks, caught off guard by the sincere condolence. She doesn't thank him. She doesn't say anything. Because their dialogue is starting to feel like a game of Whack-a-Mole. Every time she shoots down a friendly overture from him, he's back with another. He's determined to make some kind of connection with her—though she can hardly guess _why_—and she's determined not to like him. (He's succeeding; she's failing, much to her chagrin.)

"I'm ready to return to my prison cell, Warden," she says, dropping her napkin on the table.

The look he gives her is…unreadable. Not disappointment. Perplexed? Not quite. Sad? No. Not angry, exasperated, or long-suffering. She only knows he's not entirely pleased with her announcement, for whatever reason. (Why is she bothering to discern his expression? That's the real question.)

"If that's what you want."

He pulls out his wallet, leaves some cash on the table before sliding out of the booth. He holds a hand out to her, ostensibly to help her up, but she rises on her own. She nods for him to lead the way, and he shakes his head with a soft laugh.

He has a quick word with Ruby and Roland's jubilant "Bye Gina! I see you in the morning!" echoes in the busy diner as Robin ushers Regina outside.

He doesn't take her to the sheriff's-station-slash-jail, though. Instead, he walks down Main Street, cutting into a pathway shrouded with overhanging branches and thick shrubbery. She is hesitant to follow him, but curiosity wins out in the end.

"Is this where you kill me and dismember my body?" she asks.

He turns around and gives her a measuring look—a _lingering_ measuring look. "I believe it more likely that you'd mete out _my_ demise long before I made my bumbling attempt."

She grins before she can catch herself. "True."

He gives her a beatific smile in return, and there's an odd sort of flutter in her stomach. (That's inconvenient.) He gestures beyond the path toward a large house—not quite a mansion but almost. "Your castle, milady," he says, "at least for the night."

There's a sign hanging over the door. Granny's Bed & Breakfast. Did the woman own the whole town? Or was the place rife with geriatrics? "I don't understand."

He fishes something out of his pocket—a key—and hands it to her. "Granny upgraded you at no extra charge to a room with a view of the town square," he explains. "I hear it's a favorite." When she continues to stare at him, he adds, "Unless you'd rather have the cot. That would certainly save me some money."

She turns the key over in her hand. It's attached to a beautiful keychain of ravens in flight. "You paid for the room? For _me_?"

He shrugs. "I did put you out by arresting you. Seemed like the decent thing to do."

She doesn't know what to make of this—of _him_. It _is_ a nice gesture, too nice. And it's unfamiliar (and discomfiting). "Am I supposed to thank you?"

"A simple 'thank you' would suffice, yes." He does that lip-bite thing again, and oh god, he's flirting with her. And what the hell is up with all the sudden commotion in her belly over it? "I'll leave you to get settled, then. Have a good night, Regina."

She doesn't move as he turns to leave—because though he's said her name before, this time it's _different_. Like hope. Like a promise. And it's utterly ridiculous. She's known the man for all of eight hours, and after tomorrow, she'll be on her way back to Boston. He knows that, too.

Halfway down the path, he spins on his heel and strides toward her, and if her stomach was full of butterflies before, they've multiplied a hundredfold now. He stops just inside the invisible boundary of her personal space. Her imagination flares to life, supplying her with the image of him closing the rest of the distance, knotting his fingers in her hair and—

Whoa, whoa, whoa. No. _No_. Not even in the realm of possibility.

What exactly was in her dinner? Love Potion No. 9?

"I apologize if I'm being forward," he says, "but would you care to have breakfast with Roland and myself tomorrow?"

She would say no—she _should_ say no, but she thinks of the dimpled little boy who was so optimistic about spending time with her "in the morning." Really, it's an underhanded tactic, using his son against her. It works, of course. "Okay."

"Brilliant." More lip biting. More smiling. More everything he should be banned from doing in her presence, she decides. "I'll fetch you around eight." He holds her gaze (also not allowed) for a beat before retreating.

"Robin," she calls before he disappears. His name on her tongue tastes foreign and familiar at the same time. That's a bad, _bad_ sign—flashing "DANGER" in bright, neon letters.

"Yes?" He raises a brow.

Better nip this in the bud before he gets the wrong idea. "This wasn't a date."

His brows furrow, though there's still a hint of a smile curving the corners of his mouth. "I never implied otherwise."

"And tomorrow," she clarifies, "that's not a date, either."

His expression becomes mock sincerity. "Of course not." He gives her a wink. "See you in the morning, _Gina_."

When she gets to her room, she finds all of her things waiting for her—her suitcase, her purse, her phone. Even her wallet (minus her expired license). He trusts her not to slip town. He treats her like a regular person instead of a ball-busting tycoon to be feared or vanquished.

Oh, yeah. She's in _big_ trouble.

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><p><strong>AN:** Thank you so much for reading! If you have a moment, I'd love to hear your thoughts!


	4. Forget Me Not

**Genres:** Drama, Angst, Romance, Fluff

**A/N:** So, with the latest episode (4.06), there's a whole bunch of speculation about whether or not Regina would take Robin's memories (or her own) and how that might go. And I decided to throw my hat in the ring.

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><p><strong>Forget Me Not<strong>

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><p>Bells jangle as Robin opens the door to the diner. Roland wanted a cheeseburger, begged for it with a dimpled smile. Robin is turning out to be a poor father with how often he spoils his little man, but in truth, he has grown rather fond of the meal as well. And considering the upset in their lives as late, Robin can hardly be blamed for succumbing so easily to his son's guile.<p>

Emma leans against the breakfast counter, exchanging words with a dark haired woman in a hushed argument. The Evil Queen—or once was, as the story goes. He doesn't know her personally, never had any cause to, but it's difficult for him to imagine the woman with sad eyes as the same monarch who had swept through the Enchanted Forest with terror and destruction in her wake. The same monarch who had, apparently, executed his Marian.

But that, too, doesn't sit quite right with him. Not that he doesn't believe—he does. And neither because Emma miraculously saved his wife from the Evil Queen's clutches. (Only to be cursed by another malevolent sovereign, but that is a matter he'd prefer not to dwell on at the moment.) No, it's an inexplicable sort of disassociation between lore and reality he feels when his gaze meets the former queen's.

Perhaps it is merely that this new realm seems to be a land of second chances. After all, his family is whole again—or will be when he finds a way to vanquish the Snow Queen's curse. It stands to reason that the Evil Queen might have found a new beginning for herself as well.

"Mary Margaret made the same mistake," Emma's frustrated voice reaches his ears as he and Roland take a booth nearby, "and it backfired on her."

"She was a lovesick fool who couldn't bear the thought of Charming marrying someone else," the other woman returns with derision thick in her tone. "This is hardly the same thing, Miss Swan. Not that I owe you an explanation."

"It _is_ the same thing," Emma argues. "You can't just erase the past without consequences!"

"Oh, I'm intimately aware of the consequences." The queen shakes her head, though Robin can't see her face. Quite a beautiful face as he recalls from his brief glimpses of her. "You made this mess, and you don't get to complain about how I try to clean it up."

It's then that Emma sees him, and he feels guilty for inadvertently eavesdropping. He ducks his head in silent apology. The other woman turns to follow Emma's gaze and—oh, yes. She's really rather stunning, isn't she? And quite troubled by his presence as she often has been in the rare times they've crossed paths. Is it guilt over Marian? He wants to tell her that he bears her no ill will, that he doesn't mean to be a reminder of the dark past she is clearly attempting to move on from. But he's never able to get a word of greeting out before she's fleeing him.

This afternoon will be no different by the panic tightening the corners of her eyes. Her escape this time, however, is oddly impeded by his son.

"Regina!" Roland exclaims with naked delight. The boy is out of his seat and dashing headlong into her legs before Robin can catch him.

"I'm sorry, milady. I—" Robin begins, but Roland speaks over him.

"You were going to take me to the park, remember?" He gives her a hopeful smile. "Can we go today?"

Robin frowns as horror washes over the queen's—over _Regina's_ features. How is it that Roland knows her name, speaks as though he's had some previous association with her outside of this first meeting? Roland has only ever been his care or tended by Little John. Unless—

_You can't just erase the past without consequences_.

Robin's frown deepens. They couldn't have possibly been talking about _him_. The notion is ridiculous. Why ever should she have taken his memories? Had he been bent on vengeance over Marian? If that were so, he doubts his son would greet her with such ease.

She's extricated herself from Roland's grasp with a muttered apology and out of the diner before Robin can think to pose his queries aloud. Emma lets out a sigh of exasperation, but offers no explanation before leaving too.

He stares after them, confused—_alarmed_—but a tug on his sleeve draws his attention back to his little boy.

"Can I have a milkshake?" Roland asks.

This is another area where Robin really ought to stop caving to his boy's pleas, but— "You can have one," he says, lifting Roland back into his seat, "if you tell me about Regina."

Roland giggles as though his father has said something silly. "But _you_ know Regina!"

Robin smiles despite the dread prickling in his middle. "Let's play a game," he says, "and pretend that Daddy's forgotten."

"Okay," Roland agrees, though it's obvious that he finds the entire affair dubious at best. "One time, she caught a flying monkey that was going to eat me and turned it into a doll. And then you sneaked into the castle with her, but I didn't get to come because you made me stay with Uncle John."

Robin listens as his son recounts every encounter with Regina in as much detail as an exuberant five-year-old can muster. Each tale is like a lead weight sinking into the pit of Robin's stomach—turning sour when Roland speaks of Daddy and Regina kissing (yucky, he says) and then Mommy was home.

Kissing? Robin supposes it's not entirely out of the realm of possibility. Regina _is_ attractive, very much so, and if this all occurred before Marian's surprise return, then there would have been no dishonor in the interlude. But why remove his recollections? He cannot believe he would have asked her to, not when he's aware of the exorbitant price that comes with using magic.

Roland turns the conversation to attending school with the other children of Storybrooke in the fall, and Robin tries pay heed to the boy's disjointed ramblings. But the pesky questions won't leave him be. They cycle in his thoughts throughout the meal, as he walks Roland back to camp, as he takes his turn on patrol, as he helps Little John build a campfire.

_Why?_

The moon is high in the heavens when he finds himself on her porch, rapping his knuckles against the door. His heart pounds as he waits for her to answer. What if he _had_ requested that she expunge his memories of her? It's not an undertaking he would have embarked on lightly. Is he being a fool now in wanting undone what's been done?

The door flings open, and she looks ready to incinerate the person who dared to disturb her—until her gaze falls on him. There it is again—the sadness, the panic in her expression. She rolls her eyes. "I'm not in the mood."

For what, he wants to ask but says instead, "I apologize for the late hour, milady, but can we talk? I have questions that apparently only you can answer."

"Of course you do." Her voice is a laced with bitter laughter, but she steps aside and grants him entry. She smells like lavender and honey as he follows her to a room of stark white and black, and that unique scent makes his chest lurch—as though his body recalls what his mind cannot.

She gestures for him to take a seat on the divan and when she sits opposite of him, her back is unnaturally straight, as though every muscle in her body has been pulled as taut as a bowstring. Again, he is beset with a desire to comfort her in some manner.

"Well?" she prods him with a canted brow.

"It would seem," he says, unsure how to broach this difficult topic, "that you've taken something from me."

She sighs heavily. "I made a mistake." A strange relief washes over him until she adds, "I should have taken Roland's memories, too. But then—"

"You never thought you would see him again," Robin finishes for her as understanding constricts his throat. He already has the answer to his next question, but he feels compelled to voice it anyway. "Did I agree to this?"

Her gaze drops to the span of alabaster cushion between them and is silent for several beats before she replies softly, "No. But you were too stubborn to see that it's the only way to save Marian."

His brows furrow at this. Forgetting Regina in order to break Marian's curse? That makes no— But then he remembers Elsa's admonition that only an act of true love can save his wife. He remembers covering her chilled mouth with his. He recalls the hurried explanation from the prince about the cold being a barrier, but he knew better as guilt made a barbed vine in his chest. He failed Marian because he didn't—he _couldn't_ love her. Not the way he once had. He remembers rationalizing his lack of passion for her as only a side effect of years spent overcoming grief and learning to live without her. But as he looks at the woman before him—the one who has begun to intrigue him, the one he would like to know better, but doesn't because he is duty-bound to another—and he realizes that she's eradicated the most crucial fact in this story.

"I was," he says, words sticking to his tongue in a halting revelation, "I _am_ in love with you." Or would be if he _remembered_. Who is she that he would lay his second chance at happiness at her feet? He is not an impetuous man, especially when it comes to matters of the heart, and resentment curls behind his sternum. She has taken something infinitely more precious than merely his memories.

The anguish in her eyes, now glassy with unshed tears, douses the flames of his budding ire, though, and another truth dawns on him. He's wounded her with his love. No, not just his love. His honor. He knows himself, knows that Marian's unexpected return must have forced him to make an unsavory choice. And oh, by the gods, what has he done? To the both of them? To himself?

Perhaps not remembering is a blessing after all. Except he is still hurting her. And he still doesn't love his wife—as much as he wants to rescue her.

"You failed," he says, allowing a measure of frustration in his tone.

She brushes his statement away with a wave of her hand. "It's only been a couple of weeks. Give it time."

"Time?" He shakes his head. She doesn't understand. "Already I'm drawn to you without the virtue of my memories, and—" He cuts off as he recalls the year before in the Enchanted Forest. And though he has no recollections of her then, because of Roland's tales, he knows his attraction to her did not begin in Storybrooke. "It's been twice now, and I still find my way to you."

There is so much pain in her expression that he wishes he could unmake this reality for her sake. "Pixie dust," she whispers. At his confusion, she explains, "Tinkerbell used pixie dust once to help me find my soulmate, and I was afraid to meet you then."

A moment passes before her implications become clear to him. "And you think my feelings for you are born from some magical compulsion?" he says. "Did it never occur to you that we're soulmates because we're well matched? I don't know you, not anymore, but if I loved you before, I _will_ love you again." And he wants to. He wants to at least know what endeared her so deeply to him.

"You loved Marian before," she argues. "And you can—you _should_ love her again. She's your wife and you chose her." The last bit is a jab, meant to cut him down as surely as he's unintentionally cut her.

But her accusation doesn't sting. He doesn't remember making the choice, and perhaps then he was naïve enough to believe he would be able to resurrect his adoration for Marian, that he could ignore whatever affection had blossomed between himself and Regina until it withered like a dried vine. It's apparent now that he was mistaken. Extraordinarily so if Regina believed that _this_ was their only recourse.

"Restore my memories," he says. It's not quite a demand, but neither is it a request. He needs to find a way to set things right, but he cannot do so without knowing everything. Even the unpleasant truths she's hidden from him.

"You won't be able to save Marian if I do," Regina replies. Her steady voice is belied by the near terror in her gaze.

The smile he gives her is meant to placate her fears—whether she worries that he'll ultimately blame her for Marian's unremitting slumber on the precipice between life and death, or if she's afraid he will resume crushing her under the weight of a love she desires but is barred from her. In truth, he cannot entirely predict how he will proceed once he is whole again. He doesn't know the man he became during his association with her.

"I can't save her now," he confesses. "And I don't believe I ever will—not with True Love's Kiss." This much he knows to be true, with or without memories.

She rises abruptly, crosses the room, her back to him as she says, "I can't do this."

"You can't or you won't?" Now he is afraid. More than ever he wants this, but what if she refuses him? He supposes he could go to Rumpelstiltskin for aid, but the imp will likely require a price beyond what Robin is willing to pay.

Regina looks heavenward before answering, "I don't know." She turns back to him. "I don't know how to give you what you want. You want to be a man of honor, so you chose Marian. You want me to save the very woman who stands in the way of my happiness, and I tried. I tried _everything_, Robin—even taking your memories so you could love her again."

He doesn't recall any of this, and so he aches on her behalf for the man who has required so much from her. (And is he so different when he's asking for even more?) He stands and closes the distance between them, hands balling into fists to keep from gathering her into his arms—because the notion feels terribly natural.

"I am sorry for all of the pain I've caused you, Regina."

She makes a derisive noise, takes a step back from him. "How can you be sorry? You don't even remember."

"I can imagine," he answers, and he can. He knows how much he once loved Marian, that he suffered torture at the hands of the Dark One in the hopes of stealing something to cure her illness. And if he loved Regina with the same depth—no more, he thinks, so much _more_—then how devastating it must have been to have it all ripped from them when he was forced to choose between her and his code of honor. (He doubts very much that the choice was ever between her and Marian.) He doesn't know how he behaved after making his decision, but he surmises that he must not have been able to stay completely away from Regina. He should have—if only to ease _her_ suffering.

No. He shakes his head at that last thought. He should have chosen her. Because where was the honor in giving Marian a husband pretends at love while he yearns for another? He doesn't know the weight of his crimes against Regina, but he imagines the reformed Evil Queen wouldn't have pinned her hopes for happiness on a mere whim. She chose him. He should have chosen her.

"Restore my memories," he says. Let me fix this, he wants to add but thinks she's not ready to hear it—that she doesn't trust him. He can hardly blame her.

"I don't know how," she whispers, tears now spill down her cheeks, making her appear small and vulnerable.

Oh Robin, he chides his past self. What have you done, you fool? She's lying, he knows, but he cannot begin to guess whether it's because she doesn't want him to remember or because she finds the act required to undo the spell too objectionable. And what would that act be? He only knows the stories from their former realm—something as simple as—

"Do you love me?" he asks. When she won't answer, he advances on her and repeats the question. "Do you love me, Regina?" He regrets the pain that pinches her brow, the crimson that rims her dark eyes, but he needs her admission.

"I don't want to."

It's enough.

He murmurs an apology (and another silent one to Marian) before taking Regina's face in his hands and pulling her into a kiss. Her mouth against his is like a firebolt, electrifying his skin, his bones, his sinews. That she has this effect on him when he doesn't know her— And then he suddenly does as every memory she's stolen slams into him like a deluge of arrows, each so incredibly painful in their beauty and heartache. He remembers the relentless fire she ignites in him, the passion that sears him into ash and reforms him anew. Of course he couldn't abstain from being near her for long. He feels as though he's slowly drowning when he's away from her. But he tries—oh, how hard he's tried. Because he _loves_ her.

His love, though, is so much more than needing her. He's driven to defend her, support her, protect her, have faith in her—especially when she has no faith in herself. He's desperate to be everything she thinks she doesn't deserve, but absolutely does. He was made for her as inexorably as she was made for him. His feelings for Marian were child's play compared to what he shares with Regina. This was why he refused her offer to take his memories.

But even more: he _had_ chosen Regina. He had come to his senses, realized the error of his choice. He told her as much, explained that they would find another way to undo the Snow Queen's freezing curse, but that he is and ever will be _hers_.

The infuriating woman had gone through with her rash plan anyway—immediately after his confession.

He breaks off the kiss, presses his forehead into hers as he tangles his fingers in her hair. "You willful, insufferable woman," he says with a smile, though he _is_ angry. "How could you?"

She huffs a mirthless laugh. "Of all the things I've done, including executing your wife," she says, "you're upset about _this_?"

"Damn right, I am," he returns without hesitation. He takes a deep breath before continuing, "I know I've been unfair to you, but you could have at least let me attempt to make amends before wiping out our past."

"I was afraid," she says in a voice so small that it makes his heart clench. That's the crux of all of this, isn't it? She feared that he would leave her again. Because if he could rescind his decision to be with his wife, he could change his mind about Regina as well. And she took matters in her own hands to protect herself from the poor choice he _might_ make. (And, perhaps, because she still doesn't believe she deserves the happiness he would give her—not matter how she proclaims otherwise.)

She tries to pull back from him, but he doesn't release her. His lips ghost over hers as he murmurs, "I love you."

He knows this will not cure all their ills, won't erase the mistakes they've made. But he hopes that it will bind up their wounds (hers especially) as they begin to heal.

"I love you, too."

It's a start.

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><p><strong>AN:** Thank you, as ever, for reading! If you have a moment, I'd love to hear your thoughts.


	5. Never Was

**Summary: **Their chance meeting in the Enchanted Forest during the missing year wasn't their first, but unfortunately, they don't remember.  
><strong>Genres:<strong> Drama, Romance, Angst

**A/N:** While everyone else is writing angry, hate hook-ups between Evil Queen Regina and Dark Robin (based on the Spell of Shattered Sight), here I am behind the curve, finally throwing my hat in the "what if they really did meet at the tavern theory" ring.

And yes, I'm having to take a little artistic license, because on a repeat viewing of "Quite a Common Fairy," I've discovered that Little John is not seated at the table with Robin. Oh, well.

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><p><strong>Never Was<strong>

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><p>Life on the run has given Robin a special sort of alertness, and while he carelessly sits with his back to the tavern door, he is quite aware of its creaking hinges when it opens. Not even his third tankard of the foul drink that passes for mead in this establishment has dulled his fight or flight reflexes. (A fourth might do the trick.) He doesn't turn around at the sound, though, doesn't bother to cast even a surreptitious glance at the patron either coming or going. Little John will give him ample warning should any trouble be on the horizon.<p>

There shouldn't be. Not between jobs—when the heat from the last has died down to embers and before the desperation for the next has sparked. Tonight, Robin and his men are nothing more than common folk with a little coin to spend. And with enough ale, perhaps he can drown his past. The idea is laughable, but it won't keep him from the attempt.

"Don't look now," Little John murmurs, fingering his unruly beard, "but I think our new mark has descended upon us." He nods toward the door.

Robin keeps his gaze fixed on his tankard, though he is curious. If Little John is correct, if some fool of a dandy lord has found his way into a place like this, it wouldn't do to scare off the poor sap by showing undue interest. Robin waits a beat, and then another, sips the vile mead before taking a peek. What he sees, however, is not at all what he expects.

She's _breathtaking_.

There isn't another word for it. In fact, even that descriptor is terribly lacking and unequal to the vision who sits at an empty table nearby. Robin forces himself to look away, but by the gods, he could happily stare at her all evening. He's likely more touched than he previously believed—either that, or someone has slipped him a potion that induces rapture.

"Baroness, by the look of the shiny baubles hanging off her gown," Little John says, all business in his tone as if he's unaffected by her beauty. "Do we follow her back to her estates? Or a little sleight of hand to take the treasures she has on her now?"

Robin frowns, irrationally offended by either suggestion—especially the latter. "I've no stomach for stealing from ladies."

Little John laughs at this, deep and boisterous. A few of the others join in. "Since when have you passed up any golden opportunity—lady or otherwise?"

"Since tonight," Robin returns, giving his mate a flat look. "We're none of us on the job, and I'll truss up any one of you who has us fleeing this village because you've gotten greedy. No one accosts that woman, are we understood?"

There are grudging noises of agreement from the others as they turn back to their drinks, but Little John stares at him with a wide, knowing grin. "No one but you, eh?" he asks quietly.

Robin smiles back unabashedly; there is no point in denying the truth of Little John's accusation. "We'll see soon enough, won't we?" He winks as he rises from the bench.

His bravado is short-lived, however, melting away with each step he takes toward her. What _is_ it about this fair maiden that has his mouth turning dry in the very best way? Even more, why is he compelled to put himself in her path when he knows she would most certainly eschew the attentions of a paltry bandit like himself? Does it matter? His course is set, and suffering her rejection may be worth the prize of hearing her voice.

He approaches from behind, glad for the chance to settle his unruly nerves as he tries to think of an opening that isn't trite. There really isn't any; the least tasteless one will have to suffice.

He clears his throat, and she startles at the soft noise. "Forgive me, milady," he says. (Those dark eyes of hers are absolutely stunning.) "But you seem a little out of your element."

She raises a brow, pursing her lips. "I think you're out—" her gaze falls to the tattoo above his wrist, and the bite fades from the rest of her words, "—of yours."

"Oh, very much so," he agrees with a grin, though he's perturbed that the mark—a remnant from the dark history he's desperate to escape—has any significance to her. It's not enough to deter him, however. He doubts anything will be. "May I?" He gestures toward the empty seat across from her.

"I'm not stopping you." That voice _is_ quite lovely, isn't it? Rich, husky, and not at all like the shrill timbre so many young ladies affect in a misguided attempt to sound dainty.

"Not to use a tired old line," he says as he lowers himself, "but what could possibly bring such a beautiful, well-bred woman to a seedy pub full of everyday rustics?"

Rose colors the apples of her cheeks as she gives him a small smile. He believes if she stretches those full lips of hers just a bit wider, if she gave him a _true_ grin, he'll be irrevocably awestruck. He's found a new purpose in life. "It's a long story," she says.

"You're in luck, then." He stretches his legs beneath the table, careful not to brush up against hers—though he would like to. "I have all the time in the world to hear it."

"Maybe I don't want to share." There's a hint of levity in her tone. And something else. Is she as nervous as he's pretending not to be? Surely she doesn't fear him.

"I'm fairly certain you do," he counters.

"Oh?" She gives him a dubious expression. "What makes you so sure?"

He shrugs. "You would have chased me off by now." That elicits the tiniest of laughs from her, and he feels like a king. "Robin of Locksley at your service," he says, holding out a hand.

She glances again at the lion tattoo inked into his skin before offering her hand in return. "Regina," she says. "Just…Regina."

Ah, so the lady has secrets she's not ready to divulge. He won't press the matter. Not yet. "Pleasure, Just Regina." He places a kiss over her knuckles, reveling in the blush the act inspires.

"So," she says, drawing her hand back, "tell me about yourself, Robin of Locksley."

He chuckles at the clever deflection. If she believes she can easily escape the telling of her tale, she will be rather disappointed. But he'll humor her for now. He opens his mouth to answer, but one isn't immediately forthcoming. Does he lie? Fabricate some story about being a miller or a poor farmer? No. There is something undeniably wrong about spinning such falsehoods for her. He could tell a partial truth, refer to the man he once was, but the thought churns his stomach.

"I'm a thief," he admits. "One of the best."

"A thief!" she exclaims, eyes growing round. Her jaw clenches and she mutters something under her breath that he can't quite hear, though it sounds strangely like, "I'm going to kill that fairy." But, of course, that makes little sense. Once she's collected herself, she turns her attention back to him, her bearing regal and cold. He supposes she means to be intimidating, and on a lesser man, she might have that effect. Her imperial demeanor, however, does something entirely different (and not altogether unpleasant) to Robin.

"I suppose you were hoping to make off with my valuables," she accuses, all judgment and recrimination.

He grins, shakes his head. "I would be a clumsy thief, indeed, if I went about confessing what I was _before_ I pilfered my intended loot, and I did say that I was one of the best," he replies. "Nay, milady, the only thing of value I'm hoping to steal is your time." And should that go well, perhaps a kiss or two. He's not a philanderer, never has been one despite his other sins, but she already has him bewitched with nothing more than her name.

"And I'm supposed to trust you?" she asks.

"A little faith never hurts." He drops his voice, leaning forward. "I think you want to." He meant to tease, to garner another rare beatific smile from her, but an inexplicable look comes over her face at his words, as if he's said something crucial.

The look is gone as swiftly as it appeared, replaced by a smirk. "You're awfully confident."

"Anyone who trumps the law has to be bold, don't you think?" he says.

"Or idiotic," she adds, and he likes this—her quick, shameless rejoinders. No tittering. No demurring.

"I prefer 'daring,'" he says, biting his lip. "I might even be willing to call myself 'reckless'—but never foolish."

And there it is. The smile. It dawns across her features like morning light, and it is _glorious_. He wants to live in a world where she reserves the expression just for him. He misspoke. He's every kind of fool when it comes to her—which is absolutely mad, but he strangely doesn't care.

"And you," he says. "You're reckless, too."

She raises a brow. "Because I'm chatting with a thief in a seedy pub?"

He makes a noise of agreement. "And enjoying yourself, I think." She gives him another smile, and there flies any tendril of doubt that he's a complete and utter goner. "Why have you come here, Just Regina?" he asks, suddenly needing to know everything about her.

"Not for the refreshments, I can tell you that much." She makes a face at the pewter tankard on the table, and he laughs.

"Such is the plight of the common folk, but we make do," he says. "Are you going to be coy and never answer my question?"

Color bleeds into her cheeks again, and she looks down, idly tracing the wood grain of the table with a slender finger. "Do you believe in…" She trails off, and when she remains silent, he ducks his head in an attempt to recapture her attention.

"Do I believe in what?" he prods, his heart pounding in his chest. There is a weight to her unfinished inquiry, as if once she speaks the rest, everything will change.

She brings her gaze to meet his, and the hope and terror warring in her wide, vulnerable eyes wicks his breath away. He wants to tell her that she's perfectly safe, but before he can manage a single word, she's standing. "This is stupid," she says. "I don't know what I was thinking."

Now _he_ is afraid, for he knows as surely as the moon rises each night that he will never see her again should she walk out that door. "Please," he beseeches, grasping her wrist. "Don't leave, Regina."

She glances at his tattoo as her lips part with a simple question. "Why?" Her tone is brusque, belied by the tiniest quiver in her voice, and he thinks that some part of her wants him to convince her to stay. It's a challenge he is more than happy to accept.

He draws her back to the table, encourages her to sit again, this time by his side. She smells of lavender and lye—clean and fresh—and he can hardly believe that she willingly suffers being near a man who bathes in the river and makes his bed in the woods.

"You haven't told me your favorite color," he says with a grin.

Her brows pinch together in a sardonic expression. "My favorite color? Is that the best you can do?"

"Not at all." He hasn't released her hand yet, and she's made no complaint. Emboldened, he leans into her, just a hairsbreadth, and murmurs, "If I told you that I'm beginning to believe that fate had a hand in our meeting tonight, I have the strange feeling you might flee."

"You believe in fate?" She sounds so young, so exposed, and he knows there is only one reply to give.

"Yes." He's always hated the notion that some unseen force is directing his life, leading him along with strings, but if all the gloom in his past has, in some way, lead him to this moment, perhaps that force isn't as malevolent as he once believed.

She smiles—almost—as she tilts her head, hope radiating from her again like a siren call begging for embrace. "Do you think that someone can get a second chance, even if…" She sucks in a deep breath. "Even if they've been touched by darkness?"

"I do." He has to. Otherwise he'll be eternally damned by the things he's done—unspeakable acts that make him acutely unworthy of her. And yet, he clings to the belief that he can one day be free of that bleak history, that he can become so changed that recalling it would be as though recalling someone else's deeds. Until now, he hasn't known how he might achieve such a complete estrangement from his past. He thinks the answer, at least in part, might lie with her.

She gives him a glassy stare, wet with unshed tears, and he dares to hope that he is somehow her answer too—as daft as the idea seems. "You do?" she asks.

He nods. "Yes."

Without preamble, she closes the bare distance between them and presses her mouth into his. Her unexpected kiss stuns him more thoroughly than being struck by a thunderbolt, and he doesn't return it at first—not until she makes as if to end this too-brief interlude. He follows her retreat with fervor, deepening the kiss to let her know that her surprise is most welcome. Has it ever been like this before? This _fire_, this craving to have _all_ of her, not merely a body to keep him warm?

When the need for air exceeds his need to taste her, he breaks off the kiss and rests his forehead against hers, grinning. "I can't say I dislike this turn of events."

Her laugh is soft and dry and _beautiful_. But her good humor is fleeting, face falling in sudden distress as she backs away.

"What is it?" he asks, reaching up to caress her cheek.

She closes her eyes, leans into his touch as naturally as if they have shared this gesture a hundred times before. This moment passes too quickly also, and she's grasping his hand, pulling it away from her with a heavy sigh. "I'm married."

_That_ surprise is most _un_welcome, and it's almost a physical blow. He's nearly tempted to curse it all, to pursue her anyway. He _is_ a thief, isn't he? Does it matter that the treasure he steals this time comes in the form of a woman rather than gold and jewels? And he wants her more than all the glittering wealth in this realm.

As he looks at her, though, he cannot bring himself to play the insolent rogue. Honor has ever been a virtue foreign to him, but he'll embrace it now for her sake—even if it means losing her. The fates are unkind, after all. He forces his mouth open, to shape an apology for his untoward manner and beg his leave (as desperately as he doesn't want to go), but she speaks over him.

"It was an arranged marriage—one I didn't want," she explains in a flurry of words, "and I'm so unhappy." The last of her confession comes out as a broken plea, as though she is begging him to help her escape her gilded cage. Would it not be honorable to rescue her from the devil she calls husband? And who is this man who does not see fit to give her every joy she deserves and more? Robin is grasping at a flimsy justification, he knows, but she has given him a reason to hope once more.

"It was fate that brought me here," she goes on, "by way of a fairy named Tinkerbell."

He raises a brow. "Tinkerbell?"

Regina nods. "I know. It's a ridiculous name." She bites her lip as if she is uncertain whether to tell him the rest. "She used pixie dust to help me find my…soulmate. The guy with the lion tattoo."

He looks down at the mark above his wrist, long a symbol of darkness and despair, but now something else. Something better. He's a little frightened that they are, in actuality, destined to be together—that these intense, baffling feelings are rooted in something more permanent than a flight of fancy—but he's frightened far more by the prospect of not having her.

"Well," he says, meeting her gaze again, "I suppose there is no one better to run away with than an outlaw."

She almost smiles again, shoulders sagging in relief. "You would?"

"Yes," he answers without hesitation. There's no going back now.

"Even though this all seems crazy?"

"Oh, this is quite mad." He laughs. "But even so, yes."

"Even if I told you that—" she leans forward to finish the rest as a whisper against his ear before drawing back, "—I'm the queen."

The _queen_? She must be testing him, or completely unhinged, or—no. The uncertainty, the fear of his rejection in her expression is unmistakably real. She isn't lying. He vaguely remembers hearing of the king's new young bride a year or so ago (was it more than that?). The news which hadn't seemed terribly pressing then has become absolutely vital now. This encounter has gone from impending infidelity to treason. Is she worth his head on the chopping block?

Yes. Unequivocally _yes_. Her cage may be more gilded than he believed, but it's still a cage. And he still wants her.

He takes her hand in his, holds it against his chest. "Even then," he says. "In for a penny, in for a pound."

"You _are_ an idiot," she says, though her mouth stretches in that wide, breathtaking smile he's growing fond of.

"Apparently, that's your type," he returns, alluding to her tale of fairies and pixie dust.

She laughs, and he pulls her into him to capture her unfettered elation in a kiss hungrier and more primal than the first. She turns boneless against him, and yes, a lifetime of this won't be enough. He tangles his fingers in her hair, inhales her as if he could make her a part of him, and still he wants more. The king was a fool to ignore such a woman, but Robin will gladly make up for his folly.

There is the pounding of fists against tables, shouts of encouragement coming from the direction of his companions, and she ends the kiss with an embarrassed smile. He glances over her to find Little John and the others raising their tankards in salute. Robin chuckles and shakes his head.

"I apologize for my friends," he says to Regina. "They're good men, if a tad uncouth."

She looks over the motley bunch. "That's your crew?" When he answers in the affirmative, she asks, "And you're their leader?"

He grins. How very perceptive his lady is. (And he likes that—_his_ lady.) "For better or for worse," he replies. "Though why they follow me, I'll never know."

"The prince of thieves," she asserts in a light tone.

He forces a laugh, knowing she speaks in jest, but her statement hits too near a truth he'll have to reveal soon enough. Not yet, though. "Would you care to go somewhere," he asks, "with less of an audience?"

She stares at him for a beat, as if making her final choice between her palatial prison full of luxury but devoid of happiness and spending the rest of her days on the run with a common bandit who is her supposed soulmate—but who is still a virtual stranger to her. Robin has no illusions that her decision is an easy one, as much as he wishes she will choose him.

Please, let her choose him.

"Okay."

He doesn't contain his broad grin as he rises and offers her a hand. "Shall we, milady?"

They exit with another round of cheers from his men, and he hopes she hasn't heard the more salacious remarks hollered in their direction. Not that he doesn't want _that_, too—all in due time—but she's far more than a dalliance to him. This isn't love, but as she laces her fingers with his and smiles at him, he knows love is not far off. Strange, that. How at ease he is with the idea. How he wants it.

He leads her out of the cobblestoned village, toward the forest where he and his men have made camp for the night, and she follows with implicit trust. He marvels at that, is inspired by it to be a better man, though he doesn't quite know _how_ yet. She is sacrificing everything for him; his offering in return should be at least equal to hers.

"Well, well, well," a nasally voice interrupts the silence. "Don't you make a lovely pair? A thief and a queen. Who would have thought?" The question is punctuated with an unsettling giggle.

Regina stiffens, tightens her grip on Robin's hand as he steps in front of her. He grips the dagger strapped to his belt, wishing he had his bow and quiver. "Show yourself," he commands.

Out of the shadows steps a cloaked figure, short and spry, but exuding danger as though he or she were ten paces tall. "No," Regina whispers behind Robin.

"Oh, yes," the cloaked being says, throwing back _his_ hood. Robin has heard tales of the great sorcerer with mottled skin and eyes like a crocodile. Rumpelstiltskin. The creature bares his craggy teeth in a grin as he advances on them.

"We have no quarrel with you, Dark One," Robin says, further shielding Regina. "Let us pass in peace."

"Ah, but you see," Rumple returns, holding up a finger, "I have a quarrel with you—with your new sweetheart to be precise. We had an agreement."

Agreement? Is this what she had meant when she mentioned being touched by darkness. Robin swallows back the fear rising like bile in his throat. "Whatever debt she owes you, I will pay it."

"How surprisingly noble of you, thief!" Rumple claps with malicious delight. "Betcha didn't know you had it in you. Unfortunately, there are no cancelations or transfers."

"Please!" Regina begs, clinging to Robin. "I just want to be happy!"

"Not part of the deal, dearie!" Rumple shouts back. "You should have considered the consequences before you enlisted my services. It's too late now." The last is delivered in the disturbing cadence of a nursery rhyme.

Robin draws his dagger. "Stand down, monster," he says with more courage than he feels. "You'll have her over my dead body."

Rumple cackles, undeterred by Robin's paltry threat. "I thought you'd never ask." His hand darts forward, digging into Robin's chest before tearing something out of it.

Robin's knees crack against the ground at the sudden agony ripping through his body. Regina's screams seem to echo in the distance as Robin makes a futile attempt to catch his breath. He looks up to see a glowing orb pulsing in Rumple's hand—his heart.

"It's a little dark," Rumple comments with an exaggerated wince, "but then, you already knew that. Shall we get on with it?" He gives the organ a squeeze, and pain lances through Robin once more.

"Stop!" Regina yells, stepping around Robin. "I'll go with you if you let him live."

"Regina, no!" Robin croaks, but cannot manage further protest as it feels as though something is crushing his ribcage.

"Ah, ah, ah," Rumple chides, fingers digging deeper into Robin's heart. "Didn't anyone ever teach you that it's rude to interrupt?"

"Stop it, please!" Regina pleads again. "Let him go!"

Rumple's scaly lip twitches with chagrin. "Oh, all right," he says. "But only because you said please." He shoves the organ back into Robin's chest without ceremony, and Robin gasps at the pain.

Rumple holds out his hand toward Regina impatiently. "I'm sorry," she says to Robin as she goes to the creature, cheeks glistening with tears.

Robin is on his feet again, blade in hand. "Know this, Dark One," he growls in a hoarse voice. "I will free her of you, however long it takes."

Rumple lets out another of his unnatural giggles. "There you go again, being noble," he says. "Won't do you much good, though, since you won't remember any of this."

"What?" Regina interjects, eyes rounding with horror.

"Yes, dearie," Rumple says. "I can't have you mooning over each other—yours is not the True Love I'm invested in. I have other plans for you, and your noble little thief has an appointment with a poor farmer's horse in a day or two."

"I will find a way," Robin counters, though deep in his gut, he knows he's lost. Her. Everything. He's never known despair like this before.

Rumple leans down and murmurs, "We will meet again, and maybe then I'll bother to learn your name as I'm flaying the skin from your bones." He laughs as though his threat is nothing more than a joke. "Sleep tight."

He blows dust into Robin's face, and the last thing he sees before the world goes black is Regina, his beautiful lady, hand over her mouth as she weeps.

**~o0O0o~**

Something is shaking Robin, hard and rather insistently. He rolls over, swinging his arm to fend off the brute accosting him. He looks up with bleary eyes to find Little John standing over him with the others crowding nearby.

"You left to take a piss," Little John says as he helps Robin up. "We worried when you didn't come back."

Robin frowns. He doesn't recall leaving the pub, didn't think he had that much to drink. "I must have passed out." That doesn't feel right, but there can be no other explanation.

"Clearly."

Robin shakes off the sense that he's missing something—likely born from that batch of bad mead. "Let's go back to camp," he says. "And tomorrow we'll see what bounty this sad little village has to offer us."

Little John claps a hand on Robin's back as the others roar in agreement. Robin doubts there is anything here he and his men need or want, but it seems like he should take _something_ from this place.

So he will.

**~FIN~**

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><p><strong>AN:** Yes, I left Robin's past ambiguous on purpose. I wanted to leave it open to interpretation (and hopefully still within canon), as A&E have alluded that we'll get some Robin backstory in 4B. All I have to go on is Robin's sparse comments about his past being unpleasant. (Unpleasant enough, IMO, that he feels comfortable comparing his past with Regina's and saying they're alike.)


	6. The Devil Within

**Genres:** Drama, Dark Characters  
><strong>Summary:<strong> The Spell of Shattered Sight has brought out the worst in everyone, including a valiant thief who has a past darker than anyone knew.

**A/N:** I had to try my hand at the Dark OQ stuff. This is just a dinky little thing that gives me the opportunity to throw out an idea for Robin's supposed dark past.

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><p><strong>The Devil Within<strong>

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><p>As Snow raises her sword with a vicious smile, Regina curses the <em>pathetic<em> Mayor Mills for blocking her magic. However had she managed to become so _weak_, grasping at some sad little happy ending where she finds love again and creates a family? All while allowing Snow to thrive in the town Regina created for the sole purpose of tormenting her. And that feeble, watered-down version of herself had the gall to cripple her just before she returned to her majestic glory?

Regina wants to destroy everything that woman loved. Thoroughly. Viciously.

She shoves at the steely barrier to her power, claws at it in desperation as Snow's arms swing down with a killing blow. The barrier won't give, not yet, not fast enough, and Regina thinks at least she fought her lifelong nemesis to her last breath instead of holding hands with her in some sickly form of friendship.

But the blade never makes contact. It clatters to the ground amidst Snow's scream of pain and outrage. She grabs at the arrow sticking out of her shoulder, breaking the shaft with gritted teeth.

"Flee now, princess," a familiar voice commands.

It's _him_. The man who insinuated himself into Regina's trust, spouting flowery promises of second chances. He _ruined_ her, and she has a very special brand of torture planned for him—once she has access to her magic. She beats against the barrier again as she rises from the ground. (The damn thing is immutable. She feels almost grudging respect for her other self.)

Snow glances at the sword, looking as though she might dive for it despite Robin's warning. He notices it as well and pulls back further on his drawn bowstring. "I swear to you, highness," he says in a murderous voice, "if you dare to lay a finger on the queen, I will give you no quarter. She is mine. Flee _now_."

"He can't protect you forever," Snow sneers at Regina. "We _will_ finish this."

"Yes, we will." As soon as Regina takes care of him.

Snow is gone, and Regina turns to her savior. How quaint that the bandit is compelled to defend her, even while consumed with Shattered Sight. He really is a pitiful creature, isn't he? Too strung out on love, apparently, to be taken by the darkness. Wholly unworthy of her. What had she been thinking when she took up with him?

He slips the arrow back into his quiver, slings his longbow over his shoulder as he crosses the distance between them—likely to offer her some kind of disgusting display of affection. Except no, that's not relief dancing in his pale eyes. Nor is it love. But something hungrier, deadlier, and an unwelcome thread of fear sings within her chest.

"I belong to no one," she spits at him as she backs away, scratching for even the tiniest bit of her magic, "least of all a _thief_."

"Oh, you're mine, all right." He smirks, yanking up his sleeve to flash her that stupid tattoo. "Did you never wonder what this means beyond your pretty little fairy tale about pixie dust? It's the mark of a master assassin. In fact, there's no one better." He leans forward and whispers against her ear, "I told you that I was a different man once, Regina. I don't think you believed me, but I'll gladly prove it now."

She feels the prick of a knife pressing into her side as he draws back. His other hand, flush against her lower back, keeps her from retreating further. She will skin him alive for this.

"An arrow to the heart is too clean, too merciful for the likes of you." He sucks in a breath with unnatural anticipation. "No, this will be rather messy. I am out of practice, after all." He releases her, baring his teeth in a mad grin. "Do try to run. The chase will make killing you all the more satisfying."

She smiles back. How she underestimated the gentle, valiant outlaw. It's a pity, she thinks as she picks up Snow's sword, that she won't be able to use him. Who knew he could be so delightfully sociopathic. The hell they could rain down on the denizens of this town together—such a missed opportunity. But no. The other Regina had loved him, and that alone signs his death warrant.

"I don't run from anyone, sweetheart," she says. And there it is—_finally_—the hole in the barrier, magic seeping through in gauzy wisps until the wall corrodes to nothing. "They run from me."

He laughs. _Laughs_. "I'm not afraid of you, Evil Queen."

"You should be."

His dagger thrusts forward just as she reaches for his heart.

**~FIN~**

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><p><strong>AN:** Yes, that's the end. Yes, I'm mean. No, I will not be writing more. Thank you for reading, though!


	7. Person of Interest

**Genres: **Drama, Romance, Mystery, Alternate Universe

**Summary: **Years after leaving his work as a criminal psychologist, Robin gets a call to come down to the precinct. But the woman he's asked to evaluate is more than she seems, and soon even Robin has trouble discerning reality from fiction.

**Anonymous requested:** _May I throw an OQ prompt at you? If so, then: Robin is a criminal psychologist. So naturally the police call him when she enters the station, no I.D., soaked with blood, carrying a heart, and laughing that she has killed her stepdaughter, Snow White. It's a deer's heart and pig's blood, like you get from a butcher. And she's not particularly threatening with her petite stature and fairy tale delusions of grandeur. But she is psychotic despite how sane she often sounds. And worse yet? Stunning._

**A/N:** Fair warning: the story took an unexpected turn on me, and I'm still not sure how I feel about it. It was supposed to be dark and unsettling. But stupid Robin refused to play nice. *_grumbles about obstinate thieves out of legend hijacking my plot_*

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><p><strong>Person of Interest<strong>

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><p>Robin stands in the dark observation room, staring through the one-way mirror into interrogation. On the other side sits a woman, petite in too-large green hospital scrubs. The harsh florescent lights makes her skin sallow, dulls the sheen of her dark tresses. Her wrists are manacled to the metal table, though she leans on her elbows with confidence, her posture relaxed—imperious, even. Her profile is veiled by her hair, but he can easily imagine that her face is devoid of any emotion. Except, perhaps, bald triumph.<p>

This woman is exactly where she wants to be.

And that makes her dangerous.

Chills pool at the small of Robin's back. He shouldn't be here. He's been out of the game since that horrific day that cost him more than he was willing to pay. This is now Jim Hopper's domain, but when David called, there was something in his tone, cracking at the edges. The seasoned police lieutenant was unnerved.

"We need you on this one," David said. "I think…I think she'll chew Jim up and spit him out."

Robin wishes he hadn't agreed to come in. There are too many ghosts from the past lingering in this precinct. Memories he has shut away for the sake of his sanity—for the sake of his young son.

"You don't believe me." The woman's smoky alto crackles through the tinny speaker next to the window.

Detective Emma Swan sits on the other side of the table, expression unreadable. "Would you believe you?"

"If my mind were as small as yours," the woman counters with a ghost of laughter in her voice, "then I suppose not." She hunches forward and says in a conspiratorial murmur, "And what about him? Do you think he'll believe me?"

Emma's brows furrow. "Who?"

The woman lifts a finger and swivels it toward the mirror. "Your man behind the glass." She turns her head in a languid movement and smirks, her dark eyes falling on Robin as if no partition exists between them. "Why don't you invite him in?"

The air in his lungs becomes solid, unbreathable. She is stunning. And predatory. Objectively he knows that her beauty is no greater than any other woman who scores well on the golden ratio, but somehow she is his personal siren. Beckoning him toward her—toward his doom—with the song of her piercing gaze, the curve of her full lips lacquered red. He blinks to break the unnatural connection, looks away even as his heart thrums in erratic cadence. (Of course she guessed someone was behind the mirror. She couldn't have _known_.)

_Dangerous_.

"Let's start with a simple question," Emma says. "What's your name?"

In his periphery, the woman glances back at the detective, and he exhales, sags against the window frame at the cold flush of relief. He should leave; he's no longer equipped to deal with psychotics and sociopaths despite his past. Especially one who fascinates him as much as she unsettles him—and she is _relentlessly_ fascinating.

"You're boring me," the woman answers after a moment of silence. "I'm done talking to you."

"Don't tell me you want a lawyer now." Emma levels her with a flat stare, but the other woman is unfazed.

In fact, she laughs. "Please. I don't need some ambulance chaser to coddle me." Her words are thick with sarcasm.

"Well, what do you think?"

The deep voice nearly startles Robin. He's been too engrossed in the exchange between the two women to notice David entering the observation room.

Robin swallows down the building tightness in his throat. "It's hard to make an accurate assessment without speaking with her," he says, grateful that his misgivings don't seep into his professional tone. "But I'm seeing possibilities for Antisocial Personality Disorder, Narcissism—perhaps even Schizoaffective Disorder. What did she initially refer to herself as?"

"The Evil Queen." David shakes his head, though it's clear he's still affected by the scene she made when she arrived, heart clasped in bloodied hands. She claimed it belonged to her lifelong nemesis: David's wife. Robin knows only too well the frenetic terror that his old friend experienced in that moment. Unfortunately, he'll never know the balm of hearing his wife's voice again as David did. Robin was denied that solace.

He sucks in a deep breath. "Dissociative Personality Disorder is another option, then."

David glances at the women on the other side of the glass. "I don't think Emma's getting anywhere," he says. "Do you want to take a shot at her?"

Not particularly, Robin wants to say. Though he's out of practice, he's had years of experience dealing with the criminally insane—trained at Quantico shortly after his arrival in the States. But this woman, she's something more. Interviewing her feels akin to Clarice Starling meeting Dr. Hannibal Lecter for the first time. No, worse. Because Robin is drawn to her, _attracted_ to her, though admitting it churns the bile in his stomach.

He gives David a nod and follows him out of the door, ignoring the thread of trepidation tying knots in his chest.

"We just got the test results back," David says, offering Robin a file. "I don't know if it'll be of any use to you in there, but just in case."

Robin flips it open, brows rising in surprise as he scans the report. He's not sure how this all fits together—if it does at all. Mental illness is not a puzzle where the pieces miraculously snap into place.

"Good luck." David gives him a grim smile and heads back toward his office.

Robin waits a beat, then another before reaching for the careworn doorknob. It feels gelid against his palm as he turns it, the latch releasing with a soft click. Emma looks up when he steps inside, though the other woman doesn't glance in his direction. Not until he steps around the table. The grin that curls the corners of her mouth is inhuman. Hungry, like a hunter toying with her prey.

"So, you've decided to join us after all." She gives him a measuring look, smile growing wider, and instinct tells him that she reciprocates that perverse attraction. "You can leave," she says, eyes flicking back to Emma in dismissal. "The adults are going to talk now."

Emma raises her hands as if all too happy to surrender the interrogation to Robin. She repeats David's parting sentiments as she leaves. The thud of the door shutting behind her reverberates in the small room, and Robin is taken with a claustrophobic sense of utter isolation.

The self-declared Evil Queen looks up at him, manicured brow lifted in expectation. As he takes the seat vacated by Emma, he adopts a clinical demeanor, determined to hide how deeply she rattles him. He can't lose his footing before the first word is spoken. David is right; she would eviscerate Jim—simply because it amused her. Robin hates that this revelation only serves to pique his interest further, that she reminds him of the adrenaline rush from his days spent in rooms like this one, studying society's most reprobate.

"I'm Dr. Locksley," he says by way of introduction. He considers his next words, uncertain if it's wise to make this gambit. "Shall I address you as 'Your Majesty'?" There are times when the only way to get through to a subject is to pander to his or her delusions.

She tilts her head, still smiling that abominable smile. "Are we playing a game, Dr. Locksley?"

The question is odd, but then, the thought patterns of the mentally unstable are neither linear nor rational. "Do you want to play a game?"

She huffs a soft laugh, gaze dipping downward to take him in again. "Maybe later," she says with raw promise. "You and I both know that you don't believe that I'm the wicked stepmother out of fairy tale. Don't worry, you will. But for now, you may call me Regina."

His fingertips leave damp prints on the manila file he clasps too tightly in his hand. "Regina…" he trails off, leaving her space to fill in the blank.

"Mills," she supplies easily, as though she hadn't spent the last hour refusing to give Emma even this much. "I wouldn't waste your time searching your databases. I'm not in any of them."

"Regina Mills is an alias, then?" Robin doesn't expect her to confirm this, but he felt compelled to ask for the camera embedded in the ceiling, recording this session.

Her shoulder rises in a brief shrug. "If that'll make you feel better," she says. "I'm disappointed. These questions are as boring as hers were." She smirks at him, as though her statement laid out an imaginary chessboard, and she's daring him to make a move. And he _wants_ to. He misses the turbid anticipation sluicing through his veins as he takes on this kind of deadly challenge. He wants to dissect her psyche, and see all the cogs that make her tick.

He's forgotten how strong the pull is toward this singular high, how he used to chase after it until—

Until the game became the death of Marian.

Guilt settles like poisoned sediment in his gut. Because he _still_ wants to play. Even though this woman, Regina, has clearly begun to fixate on him (like Keith Allen had). Even though her striking beauty incites a different sort of sickly proscribed thrill.

"You allege that you killed Mary Margaret Noland," he says, knowing later he'll regret not walking away from his drug of choice.

Regina smiles at him as though they are merely having a pleasant conversation over coffee. "Is that what she called herself? I shouldn't be surprised. She could be so…vanilla." She settles back in her chair. "I didn't lay a finger on her. You could say that I outsourced the job."

"You hired a hit man?" Robin raises a brow; this clarifies one of several mysteries shrouding this woman.

"A huntsman," she corrects, referencing the story collected by the Grimm brothers. "Pot-ay-toe, pot-ah-toe."

Her back is straight—_cocksure_— as she holds his gaze while he studies her. She is wholly committed to her fantasy, so utterly that were she inclined, she could be quite a successful cult leader, preying on weak minds desperate for guidance. He rubs a finger across his lips, stalling as he considers whether or not to shatter the illusion yet. She doesn't know that Mary Margaret lives. He'd recommended against telling her when David called—not until they could adequately gauge her mental health or lack thereof.

Robin decides to explore her twisted fairy tale further before tearing it apart. "You had her killed because she was…the fairest."

Regina laughs, the dulcet sound laced with mockery. "Don't be so prosaic, Dr. Locksley," she says. "Your storybooks have it wrong."

"Enlighten me, then."

"With pleasure," she says, eyes flashing with gratification. "Once upon a time there was a daughter of a fallen prince, barely more than a girl, who fell in love with a stable boy…"

She spins a riveting tale of treachery, of murder, of a controlling mother willing to destroy her daughter's happiness to fulfill her own dreams, of an arranged marriage, loveless and empty—of a young princess who was the catalyst for so much misery by virtue of telling one small secret. Robin listens with rapt attention as Regina unapologetically admits her consuming need for vengeance and the lengths she went to in order to achieve it. Training in magic under Rumplestiltskin, the towns she razed, searching for Snow White. Deals made. Lives stolen. And now crossing realms.

"Not the story you grew up with, is it?" she finishes with a smirk.

"No, it isn't," he agrees. He could spend a month or more picking through the details to find the microscopic grains of truth woven between the carefully plaited threads of her delusion. (He'd start with the controlling mother.) This is psychosis; it has to be. But what was the impetus for the break? A death? This Daniel? And why cast herself as the villain in _Snow White_?

"The next question," Regina says, drawing him out of his thoughts, "is whether I'll serve out my sentence in a cement cell or if you think I qualify for a padded room. What'll it be, doctor?"

He stares at her as another chilling possibility occurs to him. Could she be fabricating all of this in order to set up an insanity defense? It's a clever ploy, perfectly executed. (Antisocial Personality Disorder is more likely in that case.) Even so, why make Mary Margaret her victim? Why come confess her alleged crime? The last he asks aloud.

"Bravo, dear. That's the first intelligent question I've been asked since I've arrived." She leans forward, mouth curved in maniacal glee. "I wanted him to know that they were never safe, no matter how far they ran, no matter how they tried to forget. I keep my promises." The air in the room becomes oppressive with her vindication. Uncomfortably warm, dank. A bead of sweat glides down his back, then another, collecting where his shirt is tucked into his trousers.

He _felt_ it. The power behind her words. Not just the unspoken warning, the hatred, but some undefinable force both frightening and enthralling. He has to end this before he's pulled in any further. He doesn't believe her fantastical tale, of course. But he wants to know more anyway. He wants to know everything. Especially the broken young woman underneath this madness.

Dangerous, indeed.

"I would like to show you something." He flips open the file and pushes it toward her.

She glances at the report, frowning. "I don't understand. What am I looking at?"

He points to the lab results. "This is the heart you brought in." He rolls up the sleeves of his button-down as he waits for her to interpret the data. It's almost sweltering now.

Her jaw clenches, and he starts when the one-way mirror clatters in its frame. No, that was the air conditioner kicking on. He chastises himself for being excitable.

"A deer's heart. So, she's alive, then." Regina's expression turns lethal. "The huntsman betrayed me. Why am I not surprised? She's always managed to charm people into believing that she's some sweet, hapless ingénue."

"Yes, she's alive."

When he reaches for the file, she grabs his hand, wrenching his wrist. She stares at the lion coat-of-arms inked on the inside of his forearm with a mixture of disbelief and horror—the first genuine emotions she's displayed since their interview began. "That's impossible. It can't be," she breathes, looking up at him. "Who are you?"

His brows furrow as he extricates himself from her grasp. She's afraid. Of his tattoo? "I'm a criminal psychologist—"

"No!" she interrupts. "What's your name—your _full_ name?"

"Doctor Robin Locksley." They've never crossed paths before today. He would have most certainly remembered her—and more, if she'd been sane then. He smothers the disquieting wish that she was sane now.

"Robin…Locksley," she repeats in a hollow voice, eyes growing wide. "Robin of Locksley. Robin _Hood_. No, it can't be _you_." She rises from her chair, as far as the handcuffs will let her, and fixes him with a searing glare. "Get out."

He doesn't move; he can't. He has to know why she's so angry, so terrified because of the mark on his arm. Why has she included him in her quixotic reverie? His training tells him that there likely won't be a rational explanation, but he wants one nonetheless. "Regina—Miss Mills," he begins, but she cuts him off, slamming her fists against the table.

"_I said get OUT!_"

The florescent bulbs whine above, growing brighter until the room is flooded with blinding white before exploding in a shower of glass and smoke. Robin scrambles against the wall to dodge the onslaught. In the ambient light coming from the small window in the door, he can make out the shadows of an overturned table and toppled chairs. The mirror is cracked, fissures spidering from the center to the corners in a serrated web.

His breath quickens as he searches the room for her. This is impossible. _Impossible_. He's succumbed to mass delusion or perhaps had his own psychotic break—inspired by his return to the precinct. Maybe she was never really here at all, but an hallucination conjured by his subconscious to compel him to face the dark tangle of emotions he's been tramping down since Marian's violent demise.

Then _she_ is before him, unshackled, no longer attired in hospital scrubs, but dressed in something black and ethereal. Regal. Commanding. So exquisite it parches his tongue and throat. And though blood pounds in his ears, he realizes that he's not afraid—not as he should be.

"I've invested years in my vengeance against Snow, and I'm not about to let them go to waste because you've suddenly appeared in my life." She reaches up to caress his cheek in a strange juxtaposition to the underlying threat in her tone. "You understand that I can't let you interfere with my plans."

Her hand trails down his neck, presses against his sternum, and agony lances through him as skin and sinew and bone parts for her questing fingers. He cries out as she yanks, ripping something from him and sending another brutal wave of pain through him. She holds up a glowing, pulsing orb, scrutinizes it with a furrowed brow. No, not an orb. A heart. _His_ heart. And she intends to crush it.

But she won't. He knows this with baffling surety. Because she's a figment of his imagination? No. This is real. All of it—including every insane word she spoke. (How strangely calm he feels embracing this irrational knowledge.) And they share some kind of inexplicable—_otherworldly_—connection, though he cannot being to guess what it is. She won't hurt him.

With a growl of frustration, she shoves the organ back into his chest, and he grunts, hand instinctively going to where hers had just been. "You don't have to kill her," he croaks out in desperation when he realizes that she's leaving.

She glowers at him, the corners of her mouth pulled back in a sneer. "Oh, I beg to differ," she hisses. "She has to pay for what she's done."

He understands that sentiment—even if it is unfair in her case. (According to her, Snow had been a child, after all.) He remembers his hand shaking as he held a gun to Keith's head, the cool metal of the trigger against his fingertip. But he didn't pull it. Doing so would have made him no better than the man who took Marian's life. Oh, but he was sorely tempted.

"And you?" he calls to Regina's retreating back. "What about what you've done."

She spins to face him, barks a humorless laugh. "What are you, my conscience now?" There are infinitesimal cracks showing in her mask. Sadness. Resignation. Helplessness. As if a part of her secretly hopes he is…something. What?

"I don't know what I am to you." He ventures a step closer to her, then another. With each footfall, resolve erases the last vestiges of his fears, his doubts. He hasn't felt such vivid purpose in years—if she would tell him what that purpose is. (This is absolute madness, but he no longer cares.) "But you know, don't you? What am I, other than some bandit out of legend? What am I supposed to be to you?"

"You want to know? Fine," she relents with scowl, closing the rest of the distance between them. "Don't say I didn't warn you."

Without preamble, she takes his face in her hands and presses her lips against his. The kiss is aggressive, devouring, as though she's been starved of affection for far too long and finally offered a feast. He returns it in kind, though it's a thousand times wrong because of who she is and what she's done. He feels as though he's coming alive with her touch, with her fingers sliding across the nape of his neck, with his hand gripping her hip, pulling her into him. He needs this. He needs her—not the Evil Queen she portrays herself as, but the girl who lost everything (like he did). This is where she belongs.

With him. In the light.

(He's being ridiculous, insane even, the doctor in him argues. But then, magic turned out to be real. Why not this too?)

She breaks off the kiss abruptly, sucks in a shuddering breath. "You were the choice I didn't make," she says, sounding vulnerable, younger. "My prophesied soul mate."

That makes sense. Why does it make sense? "Then make that choice now." He rests his forehead against hers. "It's not too late for a second chance, Regina." He has no idea of their missed opportunity, but he refuses to let the story end before it's properly begun. After the goodness, the purity that was his late wife, _this_ is the woman—corrupted by her vendetta—he wants to know better, to kiss again. He _should_ regret this; he doesn't.

She closes her eyes, tears glittering on her lashes. "I can't," she whispers, backing away from him.

Then she's gone. The despondent young woman is once more shut away by the vengeful monarch. "The path I'm on doesn't include you," she announces, drawing herself up into a stately posture. "So stay out of my way, doctor. Or should I say '_thief'_?" She spits the moniker like venom.

"Regina!" he calls out, reaching for her as she throws her hands up and vanishes in a torrent of violet smoke.

The door to the interrogation room bangs open, and David rushes inside weapon drawn, uniformed officers at his back. Robin has the absurd urge to laugh. Because he can see it now. The gallant, noble prince. The hero from fairy tales come to life. Of course Mary Margaret is Snow White. And Robin… Robin almost recalls the feel of the feathered fletching between his fingers as he draws back a bowstring—as though the memory is just on the periphery. How is this _possible_? (It isn't, the doctor tells him. You've cracked.)

"What the hell happened in here?" David asks, taking in the disarray. "Where is she?"

Robin searches for a reasonable explanation. There isn't one. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you," he says. "But she's gone after your wife, and I'm going to help you." Because he thinks—no, he _knows_ that he's the only one who can end this before a single drop of blood is shed. He's the only one Regina will listen to.

David stops him with a hand on his shoulder. "I can't let you do that," he murmurs. "You have your boy to think about."

Robin shakes his head. "He's safe." She may snap her teeth at him, but she'll never harm either of them. He represents the possibility of a happy ending, and she may not choose that course—not yet—but she won't do anything to ruin that frail hope, either. The lost girl inside of her wants him to chase after her, to save her from herself.

He will do exactly that.

(May Marian forgive him.)

**~FIN~**

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **Keith Allen is a reference to the Sheriff of Nottingham's name in Storybrooke. He wasn't given a last name, so I filched one from the actor who played the role in the BBC Robin Hood series. ;) Thanks for reading!


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